


Do Vampires Dream of Undead Sheep?

by Ark



Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Ghost Vampires, Ghosts, M/M, Sex, Slash, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-23
Updated: 2012-06-23
Packaged: 2017-11-08 09:56:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/441957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ark/pseuds/Ark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alaric is laughing in his arms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do Vampires Dream of Undead Sheep?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pleasebekidding](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pleasebekidding/gifts).



Damon has a dream.

In the dream, Alaric is laughing in his arms. They've had too much bourbon, entirely too much, far too much, way, way too much, and Alaric isn't limp so much as limpid, batting big eyelashes over bigger eyes at Damon.

They're so fargone that Alaric doesn't mind when Damon bends to bite him at the neck, not even trying for a subtler spot, just latching on at vampire mission control. Alaric arcs up under him, fighting it only a little on instinct, has fought down the urge to fight this so many times before. Damon drinks from him and feels alive again, in the dream.

In the dream, Alaric pushes him away at last, and flips him before Damon can go for more; and it's a good sort of dream so then they're not wearing clothes anymore, and Alaric is kissing Damon, kissing his own blood from Damon's mouth, and then he says, ruby-lipped, “Well, if I've started, I may as well have the good shit,” and he reaches for Damon's wrist. The light behind them is amber and Alaric puts Damon's wrist between his white teeth. This was always his favorite part, if Alaric ever did this. It's been a long time since he let himself think about it and no time.

Alaric on Damon's blood was electric and unpredictable, so they stayed indoors, in bed, the few times Alaric had let it happen. In the dream Alaric is painted by sunset colors and he doesn't hesitate with Damon's wrist, or with drinking. His teeth sink into Damon's flesh while his eyes watch Damon's, in the dream.

“I've missed you,” Damon says, when Alaric pulls away, flushed with vampire blood, Damon's blood on his cheek that he brushes free.

“Oh?” says Alaric. “Where did I go?”

Damon doesn't have an answer for that, so he answers as he did most unwanted questions, with a swivel of his hips. Alaric grins, bright-eyed. Damon says, “How do you want me?”

“You know,” says Alaric. “Like the beginning.” Their first beginning had been in a cornfield after a satisfying fight with a viper's nest of encroaching territorial vampires; they were celebrating and arguing over their victory and then they were kind of grappling and wrestling with each other amidst the stalks of young corn.

But really the beginning Alaric was talking about was an hour later in a crappy motel room off a nameless road. They had sat fully clothed on the bed with their backs against the fraying headboard, sharing a bottle back and forth; and Alaric's hair was the color of cornsilk, thought Damon, and there were still bits of greenery in his hair and it stood up from where Damon's fingers had been. Under his t-shirt's collar Alaric had a bloodbruise that fit Damon's mouth exactly.

“I'm a bad idea,” Damon had said, honest about it, proving it by taking the last sip for himself.

“Very bad,” agreed Alaric. “Really, really bad.”

Then he turned and kissed Damon, his hands making a mess of Damon's hair. “Terrifically bad,” said Alaric. He kissed Damon again, and Damon knew his eyes were huge, and that he was kissing back like it wasn't a bad idea, like it was the best idea they'd come up with yet and also ever in the pantheon of the history of ideas. “Totally fantastically bad,” said Alaric.

So like the beginning meant Alaric fucking Damon on the bed hard and fast and rough after the kissing didn't stop, to get it out of their system and have it stop being weird. Turned out it wasn't weird at all, was sweaty and energetic and enthusiastic and awesome and their bodies lined up so well and they liked lots of the same things, turned out.

It could've been a quick comforting buddyfuck only it wasn't, so that when Alaric lay breathing hard on Damon, still in Damon, still kissing Damon's face, it meant they weren't done.

Like the beginning meant Damon teasing and licking and sucking Alaric's cock for so long that a dozen dirty jokes about room service were born, meant Alaric fucking him again only this time an intense, lingering kind of fuck, less tooth and claw and more the kind shot back-lit in movies for housewives, sundrenched bodies slotted together and dazzled eyes and tongues that spoke in place of words.

“Yes, good,” says Damon in the dream, so Alaric has him like that. Raw with joy and want and discovery and danger and deeper, deeper, the deeper they go the more they understand each other, and they're never better friends or more in agreement than when Alaric is so far into Damon there isn't anywhere else for them to go.

After the first motel room they only got better in other motels and carseats and perfected their form in the library at the boarding house, and later, much later, in Alaric's big soft bed in the room of doomed Gilbertian Defense Against the Dark Arts parental figures. By then Damon slept most nights next to Alaric in one of two positions: wrapped around him in thorough cling, the whole spoon shebang, aligned at shoulder and hip and knee and toes with Alaric, an arm draped over his belly; or else Damon was in fantastic sprawl, taking up three-quarters of the bed to Alaric's ongoing disgruntled amusement. Even when sprawled Damon found a way to touch him through the night.

Now Damon's alone, he's always alone now even with people around him, and his bed is so fucking big, no one needs that kind of bed when it's empty. The bed at the boarding house mocks him daily, and he has stopped going into the library unless he's cleaned out Mystic Falls Liquor's supply of bourbon and there's nothing else for it. That only happened twice. He'd nearly taken Stefan's hand off for trying to pick up a glass that rested on a sidetable; the remains of rye and ice had long since evaporated, leaving behind dusty crystals from Alaric's last drink with him outside a tomb he couldn't think about.

Stefan had learned after that at least, left the glass where it was.

Alaric had put the glass down with an inch unsipped to watch Damon approach his chair. Damon pulled off his clothing as he went, impatient enough not to make it much of a show, and he'd straddled Alaric who was already hard from watching Damon walk across the room.

Damon showed him a much better show, showed Alaric how he'd spent a long while earlier making himself ready for him so that they didn't have to wait, and then Damon had taken all of him in while Alaric was still processing that, making Alaric's breath hiss out; and then he had ridden Alaric until an arm came off the chair, which had survived three centuries but couldn't make it through them.

After that Alaric had taken him upstairs to bed, and been slower and unrushed and very unhurried, and every time he moved in Damon he set his forehead against Damon's and looked at him while they were fucking, and he kept touching Damon's mouth with his fingertips.

In the dream Alaric is like that, and in the dream Alaric says the same thing he said then. “I love you, Damon,” he says. “Too fucking much.” It's nice to hear it now, because Alaric says it smiling, looking happy about it, not sad like he had that day with Damon, on over in Damon, not afraid of himself and the things he'd done in psycho killer black-out and afraid of what he might do and afraid they wouldn't be able to do this anymore.

And to Damon then any thought of the kind had been ridiculous in his arrogance so he'd said, “There's no such thing as too much fucking,” but Alaric's eyes with their hints of gold were so serious on over in him, so Damon had pulled him deeper and said “I love you too, Ric. We'll figure this out, okay? I promise,”

but that promise had been broken and others he should have kept like being there to ensure Alaric's last heartbeat had been broken because he hadn't been strong enough, he isn't strong like they think he is, he'd needed Alaric for foundation and Alaric had leaned on him and that was their secret, that was their biggest secret, that they had kept each other up.

Needs him so badly and can't even keep him, dreaming, fights chemistry and REM sleep and the sun rising but Alaric still goes fuzzy at the seams, doesn't hint at gold anymore so much as he's all golden, his fingers touching Damon's mouth.

“I love you too. Ric. _Ric._ I won't wake up,” says Damon in the dream, waking up. “I won't wake up. You can't make me. I can't wake up and be here again without you.”

“Oh?” says Alaric. “Where did I go?”

 


End file.
